


The mercy of the forest bees

by wallyflower



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Not Fluff, Severus Snape Lives, Sexual Content, uncomfortable first time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:54:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24164689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wallyflower/pseuds/wallyflower
Summary: Hermione Granger,  Auror and newly hired Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, can't stop staring at Severus Snape. He stares back.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Severus Snape
Comments: 30
Kudos: 74





	The mercy of the forest bees

**Author's Note:**

> This is a two-chapter story, which starts a little bleak but which will have a more satisfying ending.

He was looking at her again. The only reason she knew was because she had been trying to look at him surreptitiously, only to be met with his black, inscrutable gaze. 

Hermione quickly looked back at her plate, unseeing. He must have noticed how often she had taken to staring at him during mealtimes. The hall buzzed with dinner conversation and thankfully none of the other teachers tried to engage her. She felt embarrassed and wondered what he must be thinking. 

She couldn’t help it. Severus Snape had been in her every thought for what seemed like months, starting shortly after she was hired to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts. 

Even as a child she had always been attracted to the most intelligent person in the room, and he was certainly that; then there was that remarkable self-possession and control. He gave away so little of himself in conversations at mealtimes and in the staff room, but she felt his personality to be larger than life, his every opinion fascinating. She had come back to Hogwarts to find him a little changed—a little more open with his colleagues, a little less abrasive, perhaps more relaxed. She longed to know more about him but was too intimidated to try striking up a friendship, knowing keenly how he had always disliked her.

As the youngest teacher she sat somewhat to the end of the table, with the Herbology apprentice to her left and Professor Sinistra to her right. Snape sat between two of the only people he seemed to tolerate—the flying instructor Rolanda Hooch and Professor Sprout of Herbology. They talked quietly with each other, presumably about the upcoming Quidditch match as Hermione could hear Hooch cajoling the other two professors into a bet. When she dared to look up again, Hermione met Professor Snape’s eyes again, and looked away, face suffused with warmth. 

It was an interesting term. 

***

When she wasn’t foolishly daydreaming of ways to strike up a friendship with her former professor, Hermione kept herself busy with work. She had concluded two years of Auror training before accepting an invitation to teach at Hogwarts for a year; only a year, she had reminded the Headmistress, because afterwards she would continue to pursue her career at the Ministry with Harry and Ron. 

She had been of two minds about returning to Hogwarts. On the one hand a brief stint in academe gave her the time to continue working on a charm she had been developing, and there was Professor Flitwick at hand for her to consult. On the other hand, being back at the castle, rather than comforting her with warm nostalgia, gave rise to terrible memories she thought she had put to rest during her Auror training. It had been a struggle back then to finish her seventh year without Harry and Ron, and she had left Hogwarts relieved. Now, at times, assailed by loneliness, she wished she had not returned to relive the experience. 

The difference was, of course, Severus Snape. He was sufficient distraction most of the time. 

She had spent her years in Hogwarts intrigued by him and his mind; a curiosity partially satiated when all came to light about the Half Blood Prince, but inflamed all the more by Harry’s account of his memories and the roles Snape had played in the last year of the war. She supposed she was no different from a groupie. She admired his bravery and his cunning; his sharp intelligence that she felt few could appreciate. That Harry had forgiven him and admired him—to Hermione’s warped logic this was tacit permission to allow her attraction to him to continue. Snape could fly, had mastered wordless magic, had developed spells and optimized potions in his youth; was it any wonder that Hermione wished she had been in a position to be his friend? 

That wasn’t all. 

She would never admit this to another living soul, but over time he had become so handsome in her biased eyes. She liked to watch his movements across the room; liked to watch him as he poured himself tea (two sugars and no milk). His movements were sure and economical. She doubted that she had ever been so graceful.

She loved his face, loved his slow rare smiles and the way he rolled up the sleeves over his forearms when he accompanied Professor Sprout in harvesting potions ingredients at the greenhouses. She even liked his voice, restored now to its former glory, low and modulated and with the most careful enunciation she had ever heard. 

He was so much older than her. It lessened his attraction not at all, but only served to make her feel more insecure and intimidated. She felt sure that he could see right through her staring and her fumbling. She felt sure that she was better off preserving some dignity by saying nothing at all, and keeping her distance. This presented a problem, because she just longed to talk to him more and more. She stayed far longer than necessary after staff meetings and after tea in the faculty lounge, sharply disappointed when he didn’t show, giddy with happiness when he did. 

*** 

As though in answer to her most secret prayers, an opportunity came one day in December, mere days before the holidays. Poppy Pomfrey had stopped by the staff room for afternoon tea. Snape had just come in and nodded greetings to the staff when he was accosted almost immediately by the matron. 

“Severus,” she chided him, “did you not receive my owl?” 

“I apologize,” he said with a lift of his eyebrows. He accepted a cup of tea from Professor Sprout. “My fourth year Ravenclaw and Slytherin class are a menace. Today marks my third melted cauldron of the term.” 

Noises of sympathy were made as he sat down. Hermione watched him surreptitiously, pretending to write a letter in the corner of the room. She didn’t know if it had always been like this—if the older women had always gravitated to him as though he were a child in need of mothering, or if they were simply as sorry as she was for things that Snape had had to endure in the line of duty during his year as Headmaster. Whatever the case, during tea time they always cut him a slice of tea cake and he always refused. 

Pomfrey continued, “I asked if we might ask you for an additional batch of Pepperup for the hospital wing. Quite frankly, we’re almost out. I’d brew it myself you know,” she said as though anticipating a snide remark, “but you know how the students complain that my brew only lasts half as long.” 

“It’s the way you handle the he bicorn horn,” he said, taking a sip of his tea. “You always handle it too much with your hands as you crush it, and the moisture on your skin makes it far less potent.” 

“Yes, yes,” the matron said with a smile. “Very clever. Now will you make the extra bottles before the holidays? The second years seem to have caught a nasty bug.” 

“Very well,” he said. “I’ll do my best. If you want them by the end of this week, however, you might think of finding me a competent assistant. I currently have four things brewing right now, all of them for the Ministry’s clinical trials, and it wouldn’t do to be distracted by too many potions at once.” 

“How about Rolf?” Sprout volunteered her apprentice, a mild mannered Ravenclaw who was two years younger than Hermione.

“I sincerely hope you are joking,” Snape said. “The last time the boy tried to help me, he accidentally contaminated an entire batch of headache potion because he hadn’t washed his hands thoroughly, and bits of soil were under his fingernails.” 

“Well, who else—Hermione!” Madam Pomfrey called her from across the room, startling her into dropping her quill. Heart in her throat, Hermione stood and came closer. She kept her eyes on the matron, conscious of Snape’s glittering black gaze. “Yes, ma’am?” 

“Here, Severus, Miss Granger earned an Outstanding in potions, didn’t you my dear? I keep saying you should have been a healer, you had remarkably good marks all around. Can you help Professor Snape brew a few extra batches of Pepperup before you leave for the holidays?” 

All at once a dream come true and a nightmare—a chance to be alone with the man, but also a frightening occasion where she might either make a fool of herself by declaring her feelings, or by failing to meet his exacting standards. She hadn’t brewed Pepperup in years. She ventured to look at Snape, who looking at her with unreadable eyes. “O-of course,” she managed. “If you would permit me to assist you, Professor Snape.” Her words were overly formal. She knew she probably looked as flustered as she felt, but hoped that the women would attribute this to fear that she would be brewing in Snape’s classroom again. 

Snape looked at her, and there was something knowing in his gaze. 

“Very well. I’ll meet you at the dungeons tomorrow at 7 o’clock.” 

He drew a fingertip over the rim of his cup. Hermione suppressed a shudder. He left soon after, flicking his gaze towards the table where she had been writing her letter. She returned to it, only to realize that she had written only one line in the entire time. 

*** 

She went to the dungeons at six forty five in the evening the next day. She stood there, shifting her weight from one foot to another, before deciding to be brave and knocking on the classroom door. 

She had thought about putting a sleekening product on her hair, or about wearing something more flattering. It was absurd to even think of the evening as something like a date, but she had no idea when something like it could happen again; she had spent nearly three months in the castle without having a real conversation with him. At the same time, any new effort on her part would be too obvious. She resolved to leave her face bare and her hair braided. Her usual teaching robes would get in the way of brewing, so she settled for a warm jumper and jeans. She wondered if he could tell how long she had ruminated on what to wear. She was twenty-one but she felt like a gangly teenager. 

At her knock, the door opened; he must have opened it wandlessly. The classroom was empty but there was light coming from the workroom beyond. She peeked inside and saw him standing in the middle of four cauldrons, each one emitting a faint green smoke and smelling of herbs. She felt the room’s warmth on her cheeks. Sniffing the air, she said before she could stop herself—“Is that dittany?” 

Snape seemed unsurprised by her question. He just nodded and looked at her briefly, taking in her attire as she said her good evenings. He made some notes on a Muggle notepad at a nearby table, then lowered the flames on all four cauldrons to a gentle simmer. His eyes met hers then. “We’ll use the classroom,” he said. “I wouldn’t like the fumes to mingle.” 

He came to the door, and Hermione realized too late that he meant her to precede him to the other room; before she knew it he was standing in front of her, her head level with his chest, mere inches away. Her throat was dry. 

“Well?” He said, and there was a note of something in his words. In another man she would have called it a gentle chiding, but Snape’s demeanor was too cool for such words, and his eyes remained hooded. Coming to her senses Hermione backed away and into the classroom. Snape levitated three medium cauldrons to the table. 

“We’ll make three cauldrons worth tonight, and another three tomorrow,” he said. “Unless you have other plans for tomorrow evening?” 

The next day was Saturday. She had hoped to stop by the Hogsmeade shops for some chocolate and quills. 

“Not at all,” she lied quickly. He lifted an eyebrow and said nothing. He gestured to the blackboard, where his writing appeared. She recognized a modified recipe for Pepperup that had been scrawled in the margins of the Half Blood Prince’s book. 

“You can get started with the ingredients. I assume you remember your basic skills?” 

His tone was neutral but she flushed all the same. “Yes, sir.” 

He left her then, robes fluttering behind him as the door to the workroom opened and closed again. He had laid out the ingredients on the side board earlier in the evening and as she measured out the bicorn horn she realized that her heart was pounding. 

*** 

She was halfway through the three cauldrons when he emerged from the workroom. She tried not to seem too anxious as he inspected the color of each brew. “Adequate,” he said, and she supposed she ought to be grateful he said no more. He took charge of two cauldrons and she finished the remaining one. Soon they were adding the fire seeds slowly—then one minute to simmer—and they were done. 

They had been silent the entire time. Hermione felt a sinking disappointment. She had been too timid to ask about the potions he was brewing next door, and too timid to ask about the modifications he had made to the Pepperup; the moment, it seemed, has passed. Things had not quite worked out to her satisfaction. 

She knew him a little—perhaps better than he knew, because of Harry’s memories and how closely she had researched the half blood Prince and his mother—but she longed to know much more. Why was it so easy to befriend the rest of the staff, and so insurmountably difficult to have a conversation with Snape? She risked a glance at him; he had his back to her as they were both bottling the potion. He was so very tall, and his shoulders were so broad. She wished she could approach him and press her cheek to his back. 

As though he could read her mind—he probably did—he turned and stared directly into her eyes. Caught yet again, and more embarrassingly than ever before, she wasn’t sure what to do and looked down. 

“Have you finished bottling?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Her eyes were downcast so she could see only his boots and his legs. As she watched, he leaned against the table and crossed his legs at the ankles. When she looked up, his arms were crossed and he was looking at her face. His expression, as it so often was, was unreadable. His white shirt stretched over his arms, and she swallowed. 

“I have a question for you.”

 _Here it comes._ She swallowed. “Yes, sir?” 

His mouth tightened, relaxed. “I really am no longer your Professor, and I believe we are currently colleagues. I was your age when I first started teaching.” 

_I know._ “Yes sir.” 

“Do you think you could call me something other than ‘Professor’?”

She blinked rapidly. “If you like, sir,” she hedged. 

“You might try calling me Severus.” 

He had done all the work for her. Despite her shyness progress was still made, and she looked down to hide her surprised, pleased smile. “I’ll try, sir. Thank you.” She imagined now calling him by his name in the staff room, at meals, in the hallways. 

He moved, and by when she looked up again he was standing directly in front of her; she could have easily touched his chest. She could smell him, a smell of soap and herbs. She swallowed.

“What time would you like me to come back tomorrow?” she asked, hoping for a dignified exit. Surely he must see how flustered he made her.

“I haven’t quite asked my question,” he said.

“I thought—about your name?”

“Not quite.” 

He came closer. He was already quite close and ended up backing her into the table; she worried for the potions but a flick of wrist, she assumed, steadied the whole set up. She couldn’t look away from him. What was happening?

“I wonder,” he said, “why it is that every time I happen to look in your direction, I find myself met with your stare.” 

Her heart pounded. Denial was of no use; he had had three months in the term to collect evidence of her foolishness. She said and did nothing, waiting for him to continue. 

“Is there something in particular that you are interested in?” 

Silence. 

“Perhaps a question that you want to ask?” 

She opened her mouth but closed it again. 

“Or perhaps there is something on my face that you find unpleasant.” 

At that she had to protest. “Of course not,” she said in a rush. 

“Then what is it, I wonder.” His hand lifted and she watched, fascinated, as it came up to her face. To her surprise and delight he cupped her cheek. His long fingers touched her ear. 

“You were looking at me much the same way when I stood my trial at the Wizengamot.” 

She was startled that he remembered. There were so many people there that day. It was not a dear memory, but she had given her testimony—as had Harry and Ron—to his benefit. He had been eventually acquitted of war crimes, and even received a little shine of glory and some compensation from the Ministry, but she would not soon forget how he looked in the prisoner’s chair. He was imperturbable, face neutral, even bored. She had thought once or twice then that she had met and held his stare, but surely she was too far away, and surely too insignificant. 

The fingers on her cheek moved softly until his hand was cupping her chin. She prayed that he would keep it there a while longer, prayed for the moment not to end so soon. His fingers were calloused and she reveled in the sensation.

“I had thought at first that I was mistaken. Perhaps it was merely coincidence that our eyes met so often. But I think that at this point, you wouldn’t dare deny your staring.” 

He looked directly into her eyes. Silence stretched on, making her uncomfortable, so that she said “No, sir.” 

“You said you would call me by my name,” he admonished her. His right hand was still warm on her chin; he moved it to sweep her hair off her forehead, tucking it behind her ear. 

“No,” she said, “S—Severus.”

“Good.” He nodded as if to himself. To her surprise he stepped even closer. His left hand came up to her waist and stayed there; a foreign, exquisite sensation traveled up her spine. Surely he could hear how loudly her heart was beating. 

“What is it that you want, Professor Granger?” His voice was low, warm and thick.

“Hermione,” she whispered. “You might call me Hermione. Nearly everyone else does.” 

“Very well. Hermione.” She had never heard him say her name before. She felt overwhelmed, wondered if this was yet another daydream and if she were to be startled awake in the staffroom, where she sometimes fell asleep reading after dinner. 

“What do you want from me?” 

There was nothing for it. “I would like to be your f-friend,” she whispered. “If you would let me.” To speak louder was impossible, as she feared she would dislodge her hand from her warm cheek. 

Snape’s eyes widened. He wasn’t smiling, and yet she could read his expressions enough to tell that he was amused. He always tried to seem carefully impassive and neutral. 

“My friend,” he repeated. His hand traveled to her back as he came closer and his chest was flush against hers, forcing her to look up at him at a more extreme angle. Her hands dangled uselessly at her sides; she was unsure where to put them or if she had his permission. “I think that we both can tell that this is not what you are interested in becoming.”

How could she deny it? She could only imagine how she looked. Her chest was heaving; her face was flushed and she could only assume that her expression of longing betrayed her as she couldn’t control it from the moment his hand touched her waist. But his easy knowledge of her biggest secret horrified her. 

“I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t presume—“ 

“Then I can do the presuming for us both.” And his mouth was on hers. 

She had had kisses before, but not so many that she had any reasonable level of confidence. Stunned and not quite able to believe this was reality, she followed his lead entirely. His mouth was soft against hers; he kissed gently but with intent. He tilted her head back, and her mouth opened as she was startled; his tongue followed, moving against hers until she was lost in joy and a warmth that overtook her whole body. She was awash in sensation as his other hand stroked her back. Feeling slightly dizzy, she moved her hands to grip his upper arms, relishing the way her fingers crinkled the fabric of his shirt. 

His mouth left hers to travel to her ear and her neck. She felt her knees tremble as if they couldn’t hold her; vaguely she admonished herself for being such a cliché. Snape tightened his grip on her so that she wouldn’t fall, and leaned her against the table as his mouth and his hot breaths continued their exploration of her ear. 

After some time—she had no sense of whether they had been at it for mere seconds or full minutes—he stood back, keeping his arm around her waist. His eyes darted all over her: her hair, her face and her chest. Her stuttering, steadying breaths embarrassed her, and she quickly let go of his arms, searching his face for some sign of anger of derision. She feared his ridicule keenly.

“I believe that we could come to a certain... arrangement.” His expression was stoic as ever. One would not have been able to tell that, mere moments before, he had been devouring her, had had her skin between his teeth. 

His left hand left her back only to slip under her jumper at her side. His skin was warm against hers; she jumped in surprise at the sensation as he stroked her abdomen with his thumb while his fingers enveloped her waist. If he had needed any confirmation that she was amenable to whatever arrangement he had in mind, her reactions gave her away. She really could say nothing, both fearing and desperately anticipating what he would say next. 

He sighed. “I see that I’ll have to do most of the talking.” His thumb continued that heavenly stroking. “If you come back here, tomorrow evening, to assist me in completing the second batch of Pepperup, I’ll know that you are amenable to... continuing... this.” As if to underscore his point, his thumb dipped under her waistline. She shivered.

“If you do not come, then I will complete the potions myself. You needn’t apologize, or explain yourself, or send me a note; I will simply understand and no more shall be said about it. Do you understand?” 

Not trusting her voice, she nodded. 

“Good.” The warmth of his hands left her and he tugged her jumper into place. He stepped back from her then and she mourned the loss of him. She came back to herself and realized that she was still leaning against the table. She straightened and looked away, trying to regain some sense of composure, overconscious of her every movement as she patted her hair down unnecessarily.

“Shall I—shall I help you with the cauldrons?” Her voice sounded embarrassingly thick and husky. 

“There is no need. I can take care of them.” He cleared his throat. “Hermione.” 

She flushed again and she worried that she would do something ill-advised, like throw her arms around his neck. She bid him good night and all but ran to her rooms. Her skin burned where he had touched her and, in the mirror that evening, she saw that a spot of skin on her neck was darkening into a bruise. 

*** 

There was no question that she would return. The other questions were a lot less simply answered. He had said nothing for three months; there had been plenty of opportunity to talk—she certainly threw herself in his path often enough. Why now? Away from his hot mouth and exploring hands she could think a little more clearly, though she could provide herself no answers. 

She also knew how she looked. She was no great beauty; she remembered a whispered conversation between Molly and Arthur Weasley in which the former said that Hermione had grown up “quite plain”, and she felt this to be an accurate summary of things all around. She was of average height, much shorter than both Ron and Harry, and her figure wasn’t impressive, with her thighs and her softly rounded stomach her biggest insecurity. But she had not been overly concerned with her appearance in her two years of Auror training. There had been too much studying, too much training, and too many Fridays spent drinking with two boys who already loved her and who cared not a whit about her thighs or her hair. 

She was not Fleur, who could draw a man in with a stare and the sweep of her eyelashes. Absent any conversation or common activity, what would draw a man like Severus Snape to a plain looking twenty something? It hurt her to admit it but she liked to think she was not a fool; that a healthy skepticism would help her keep to her course. 

With every other thought she was assailed by the memory of what it had been like, to be enfolded in his arms in that dark room. 

Walking in the grounds the next morning, trying to clear her head, she realized it was also strikingly clear that he had made no admissions of any kind. He had revealed nothing of himself or his thoughts the night before. Did he even like her? Did she intrigue him? Was he attracted to her, or was he simply lonely? Was he involved with anyone else? Had he ever slept with any of the staff? Was she the only one? 

She drew her arms about herself and shivered in the December air. 

Hours later found her in the staff room for tea. Snape was nowhere to be seen, but then he never joined them on the weekends. The room was empty but for Flitwick and Hooch, who were playing a game of chess in front of the fireplace, and Professor Sprout, who sat near the window. Hermione took her tea and joined the older woman, who chatted with her about holiday plans and about Rolf, who would be staying over for most of the holidays to tend to the greenhouses. 

“Were you able to brew Madam Pomfrey’s Pepperup with Severus?” Sprout said suddenly. 

“Ah—yes.” Hermione felt her face flush and kept her eyes downcast. “Professor—I mean, Severus—let me assist him last night with his modified recipe.” Seeing the other woman’s expression, she hastened to say, “He asked me to call him by his given name.” 

It was a foolish mistake made on the spur of the moment; but she had never said his name aloud to someone else before and it gave her a quiet, secret thrill to do it, the way it pleased a child to talk about the person they liked. She hoped that Professor Sprout didn’t notice, but unfortunately, Sprout’s expression became troubled for a moment before relaxing into a forced cheeriness. 

“I see. Have you finished then?”

Hermione saw no point in lying. “Just tonight left; we have three more cauldrons to brew this evening.” 

“That’s good, that’s good,” Sprout said in a distracted way, summoning the tea pot for the both of them. As she poured her own tea, Sprout didn’t meet her eyes as she said, “I think, my girl, that it would do you good to be a little careful around Severus. He is, of course, a good man—the very best kind—but he does tend to be a little... manipulative, I should say, to more junior members of staff. You might also remember that he has always been interested in your job. I suspect he gave Minerva hell for still not having him for DADA. At least, it probably caught him by surprise that you were hired.” 

Hermione’s blood ran cold. She could feel Sprout’s eyes on hers as she looked away. “Thank you,” she said, her voice coming as if from far away. “I’ll bear that in mind, Professor Sprout.” 

*** 

Hermione’s footsteps echoed loudly in the dungeons. Of course she still went that evening; if she didn’t, she felt that the door of opportunity would close and she would never again be able to pry it open. She wasn’t quite sure of what it was that she wanted from the evening, exactly. She dreamed of more than physical intimacy and hoped he was interested in the same, even as she felt ridiculous for hoping. 

In her wildest fantasies, Snape confessed his feelings to her; not of passionate love, perhaps, but something less trite—a desire for a like-minded companion, an admiration for her intelligence, the recognition that she could, perhaps, be one of the few who could aspire to his brilliance. She knew that these were only fantasies. Not even the memory of his mouth on her skin could convince her that he would transform into a lovesick suitor. 

Hermione tried and failed to weigh the advice of Professor Sprout. She hadn’t quite been able to ask the older woman what she meant, or if there had been instances in the past where Snape had exercised undue authority on more junior members of staff. He clearly disliked Rolf, who now had the unpleasant task of harvesting Potions ingredients from the forest as well as the gardens. She had no idea if this was a result of any machinations on Snape’s part. But surely these were tiny, petty matters. And at this point Snape had been dealing with decades of replacements for Defense Against the Dark Arts. Hermione doubted that he was out to get her for this reason. 

All too soon she came to the door. She knocked and he again seemed to be in the work room. The door opened to admit her and she braced herself before approaching him. Surrounded by the greenish fumes, he was in the process of putting Stasis charms on all four of his cauldrons. To watch him do this wordlessly was fascinating. 

At last he lifted his eyes to meet hers. She couldn’t read his expression, as he kept it carefully neutral as always. 

“You can get started on the Pepperup. I have yet to fetch the Fire seeds from storage; I haven’t had time.” She nodded and, fighting for composure, left the workroom to start work in the classroom. He had left the instructions on the board, not that she needed them; they were burned into her memory by now. 

She sliced her mandrake root, thankful for her steady hands. She still wouldn’t have liked to be observed by him as she prepared her ingredients and so she did her best to hurry through the job. By the time she heard him return, she had already added the mandrake root to all three cauldrons and would have to wait for thirty minutes for the next step. She checked her watch and couldn’t quite meet his eyes. 

“I’ve always thought that you had a quite organized mind,” he said suddenly. She peered at him sideways. 

“I—thank you?” 

“You handle simultaneous brewing with ease. You are able to become detached enough not to be nervous.” It was the biggest compliment he had ever paid her. He was leaning against his desk, staring at her. At first she tried to meet his stare head-on but became too uncomfortable and resorted to looking unnecessarily at the potions. She heard him move and summon a house-elf; she peered at him over her shoulder and watched as he received a tea tray from an elf she didn’t recognize. 

“Will you join me,” he said. The intonation wasn’t that of a question. “I believe we have a little time until your next steps.” 

She pulled up a stool so she could sit across him. She had had tea with faculty members so many times before, both before and after she graduated. But he had never liked her or welcomed her company, or given her the time or understanding she had so desperately wanted as a child. She was unprepared for something as simple as tea with Snape, and it made her nervous even as it electrified and thrilled her. 

Fascinated, she watched him play mother and pour her a cup. He prepared it exactly as she liked it, with a teaspoonful of honey and one dash of milk. He handed it out to her, daring her to comment, and she pretended not to be surprised as she accepted it and murmured her thanks. 

She had realized how well he used silence to manipulate conversations. She had noticed it in the staff room and even with her last night—how he would draw out silence until the other person cracked or was forced to say some inanity. Perhaps out of some desire to impress him or to make it clear that she was different, Hermione stayed silent as well. Sipping her tea, she cast about the room for something to catch her interest, and she focused on reading and rereading the instructions on the board. She could feel his gaze on her. The silence stretched on, and she wondered if he would speak; but he was far more comfortable with silence than she. 

She felt that in agreeing to come here she had sacrificed some of her dignity; it was a silent admission that she was interested in him, and it affirmed his every supposition about her. She could not, on top of all this, give him the satisfaction of appearing as off-balance as she had yesterday. She did not meet his eyes or say a word. Only the sound of bubbling potions and tinkling china filled the room. 

When it was time, she jumped from her stool and started on the second part of brewing. Eventually he came up to take charge of two cauldrons, as he had last night. She watched him work. She always appreciated watching an expert do what they did best. This was a quite simple potion, but even his smallest movements betrayed how he was leagues ahead of her in this field. It was fascinating and unjustly attractive. 

Eventually, all three cauldrons gave off the requisite red fumes and the potions were finished. She extinguished all three flames and bottled the potion from her cauldron; when she was done she came to assist him with his. She felt his proximity keenly as she stood a ways beside him. 

Finally the last bottle was corked. The cauldrons were treated with the usual Evanesco and banished to the side of the room. They collected the bottles into a basket that would be brought to the hospital wing the next day. At the end of it she dared to meet his eyes and found that he was already looking at her. 

“I do not often like stating the obvious,” he said, “but you came, this evening.” 

“Yes,” she said. “I did.” 

“Then you would have no objections to continuing last night’s activities?” 

She swallowed. He put it so coldly and clinically. “No.” 

“Very well.” He stepped closer. “I hope you will understand that I must demand your discretion. I do not welcome the opinions of the rest of the staff, not to mention your friends and their legions of fans.” 

She hadn’t quite thought about that part but it made sense. She couldn’t explain her feelings to any of her friends, even to Ginny, who understood unconventional attractions and who would be less judgmental of her. She nodded. 

“Good. Follow me.” 

She fought the feeling that it was all a little transactional. 

He didn’t take her arm, or kiss her, or admit any of his intentions or feelings. But she wondered if it was just his way; if he wasn’t the type of person to flatter or be demonstrative. She would be a fool, she admitted to herself, if she expected roses and violins. 

He walked some ways ahead of her, through his office and into a small hallway. It was warmer and more well lit than most parts of the dungeons. A mirror was in the hallway and she caught her reflection on it; she looked more terrified than excited, but in reality she was thrilled. It was thrilling that her first experiences in such matters would be with someone she all but adored. 

They came to his room, which opened at his wordless command. She felt the wards accommodate and admit her. The room was slightly larger than her own, with cream colored walls and dark furniture. 

Bookshelves took up an entire wall. She thought about approaching them to see their contents, but feared that he would admonish her, so she stayed put, just behind him at the door. A lit fireplace faced the four-poster, which was covered in cream colored beddings that matched the wall. It was not an aesthetic that she would have associated with him, but it its austerity did match his personality. 

He took her hand and led her in front of the fireplace. With no preamble, he took her face in his hands as he covered his mouth with hers. It was a thrilling and glorious experience to be held by him. He kissed her, and moved his mouth to her ears and neck, and kissed her again; it was a little fast and she was unsure how to reciprocate so she settled for steadying herself by clasping his waist. It all felt terribly good. She wondered fleetingly if she was an adequate kisser, but all thoughts quickly derailed when he lifted her jumper over her head. The motion was quick and caught her by surprise. She had always thought that these things started with slow unveilings but he seemed intent to move things along. 

When she was only in her bra and jeans he pushed her to the bed, where she lay in the middle, unsure of what to do next, distracted by the way he pulled his own shirt over his head before covering his body with hers. She was lost and everything seemed to be happening quickly. 

Before she knew it he had stripped her of her bra and underthings. He kept kissing her while undressing her, so she barely had time or attention to be insecure about her appearance, or to appreciate his; she had barely seen his torso. He moved his hands over his breasts and squeezed them, his thumb playing with her oversensitive nipples. Was it supposed to feel good? She wasn’t sure if it felt good, but she gloried in his attention. She clasped his face in her hands the way she used to do with Ron and hoped he didn’t mind. His stubble was thrillingly rough under her fingers. 

His hand moved lower. She tensed, unsure what to expect. His fingers dipped into her bellybutton before moving down, down until they met her pubic hair. She hadn’t been so terribly prepared. She wondered what other women did to prepare for such encounters and felt suddenly foolish for not removing all the hair. Was that the sort of thing Snape would like? Did he find her smell unpleasant? 

She felt his fingers parting her. The sensation was foreign. It was not at all like when she touched herself under the sheets. His fingers were long and not quite as gentle as hers. He explored her as she held her breath, unable to keep up with the kissing and closing her eyes. When he pushed one finger in she gasped and clasped his arms. 

“Is there something wrong?” There was almost something annoyed in his expression before it smoothed quickly over again. As if to make up for this he leaned in and kissed her on the breast, which did feel good, but then his finger was moving again and she cried out. 

“I don’t—I’m not sure—”

“Would this be your first time?” He said abruptly. His exploring fingers had come to a halt. She looked at him lying over her, his hair framing his face. She felt that he was judging her for inexperience. 

“Yes,” she admitted miserably. She feared that he would stop. 

"Are you all right?" He held himself completely still. "Would you like me to stop?

"Please don't," she said. "Do you think that we could take it slowly at first?" 

For the first time that night, he smiled; it was a little half smile but it was there, and it warmed her. He leaned in and kissed her again. This, she could handle. She wound her arms around his neck and tried to convey her enthusiasm, tried to ask him without words not to stop, to tell him she could handle it. The fingers moved inside her again and curled a little bit; and that was both pleasure and pain. She heard herself making embarrassing noises but felt powerless to stop. 

After a while his fingers withdrew. She realized then that he was completely naked. She caught a brief glimpse of his erection, ruddy and long, then he was positioning himself in the cradle of her hips. She had a sudden moment of panic but forced herself to remain calm; for the first time she demanded something through her actions and brought his mouth to hers. He complied readily. 

He worked his way into her gradually. It felt foreign and unexpectedly uncomfortable. She had read enough literature to know that the pain was often temporary, and so she but her lip and stuck with it; but the pain didn’t go away as he filled her and began to move against her. His lips parted from her as he closed his eyes, seemingly concentrating on his movements. He grasped her hip roughly and pulled her into what was probably a better position. To her, it was painful all the same, and despite her best hopes it just didn’t get any better. She didn’t dare say it, terrified that he would stop and leave her. 

It hurt so much. She couldn’t help it—she could feel tears leaking from the corner of her eye and into her hair, and hoped he didn’t notice. She couldn’t say anything but tried to be encouraging, allowing her hands to explore his shoulders in tentative movements as he moved above her. She didn’t know if it was allowed or if he would dislike it but he said nothing, just continued to take harsh breaths into her ear. 

A few of his motions made her feel good, but were overpowered by soreness. She wanted it to be over—but she didn’t. It was the only time he was ever so concentrated on her... or at least on parts of her that mattered. She wished they could go back to warm kisses, wished he would caress her neck with his hand again; but he was too far gone for that, seeking something just beyond reach, that did not feel like it had all that much to do with her. The bed creaked with his movements. His skin slapped against hers, loudly and rhythmically.

Too soon and not soon enough, his breathing became uneven and he stilled above her, letting out a small groan. His face was next to hers so she couldn’t see his expression. He had been supporting himself on his elbows but suddenly his weight was fully upon her as he collapsed, and she couldn’t escape her startled gasp. She regretted it immediately because suddenly he was gone from her. He sat on the side of the bed reaching for something in his nighttable drawer. Not knowing what to say, she reached forward and drew the blanket above herself. 

He found what he was looking for. She watched his profile as he drew out a cigarette and put it to his lips. He summoned his wand wordlessly and used it as a lighter. The smell filled the room. She had never been in this situation before and was unsure what to do next. 

His gaze flicked toward her, then back away. She felt suddenly self-conscious of her appearance. She sat up and tried to tame her hair and as she moved she felt soreness and a gush of warmth between her legs. Her cheeks burned. 

“It’s late,” he said. “You should go back to your rooms.” 

Her heart sank. Had she been imagining warm cuddles, lingering smiles and kisses, and pillowtalk? In that moment, she knew how much she had misjudged everything. She had been fighting this feeling of cold disappointment and hurt, and had been clinging to some minuscule hope that this had been the start of something good. Something romantic, even though she knew he would chafe at the notion. 

Something tender. 

His brisk words dashed what little hopes there were. In their wake she felt small and unwanted. She’d wanted so much for it to be real. 

Was this what it meant to be an adult? Did her hurt feelings, her inability to be casual, betray her own inexperience? Was it just because it was her first time? 

She had never put on clothes faster in her life. When she stood at the door to bid him a timid good night, he wasn’t even looking at her. 

*** 

Looking at herself in the bathroom mirror, Hermione knew she looked the same as she always had. But she couldn’t stop thinking of how plain she really was. Her skin was freckled. Her philtrum was too pronounced, her eyebrows messy, her mouth too thin and too wide. Her hair was monstrous. It was messy and unfeminine. 

She hadn’t even been thinking about her scars—the big ones on her chest and her arm. But then of course he had seen those too.

She had walked woodenly from his rooms to hers, and she had stood at her own portrait hole with no memory of how exactly she got there; just impressions and a desperate need to hold herself together. She had been able to do this through a scalding shower and now through the small trek to her bed. She drew the curtains around her and lay on her side. Deep breaths. Don’t cry, she thought to herself even as she felt tears travel across her nose, to her ear and into the pillows. 

What does he think of me. 

Maybe if I were beautiful he would have been kinder. 

It’s my fault.

Maybe if I had waited. 

What did I expect. 

Is it always like this the first time. 

Is it like this every time. 

Does it feel good for other people? 

Did he even enjoy it? 

He must think I am a fool. 

She fell asleep berating herself for thinking so much of him, when he clearly thought nothing of her.

**Author's Note:**

> O you,  
> Who came upon me once  
> Stretched under apple-trees just after bathing,  
> Why did you not strangle me before speaking  
> Rather than fill me with the wild honey of your words  
> And then leave me to the mercy  
> Of the forest bees?
> 
> Amy Lowell, Carrefour
> 
> Please leave a comment. I will write more about my motivations for, and thoughts about, writing this story at the end of the second chapter.


End file.
